Postcards From Last Summer (27 page)

“W
e find the defendant, Buford Love, guilty.” The forewoman of the jury turned her squarish face toward Darcy's father and glared at him from behind her glasses, her lip curled like a Doberman ready to attack. The bitch.

Darcy wanted to stride over to her and strip that unfashionable eyeware off her face, but she figured that one criminal was enough for the Love family. In front of her, Dad's lawyers muttered to each other, the lead counsel, George, turning to her father with a hand on his back and whispering in his ear. Darcy imagined he was giving Dad the “we did our best, gave it the old college try” speech. She'd never know, because ever since Mom dropped out of the scene Dad's attorneys had stopped acknowledging Darcy.

Sliding down on the wooden bench, Darcy felt as if she were sinking in a black hole, the lawyers and court officers, the protestors, jury, and New Yorkers of the courtroom swirling around her, a teeming mass of chatter and sweat, hot breath and disapproving, curled lips. She was sinking, being sucked into the vortex of the noise and indignation and disapproval.

She couldn't take it . . . the bitter animosity toward her father, who'd now left her with nothing.

How was she supposed to survive
and
take care of a tiny baby?

She felt herself gag and worried that she was going to throw up in the courtroom—which would make the angry mob that much more repulsed by her.

Something pressed on her shoulder, and she lifted her heavy head.

“You okay?” Lindsay asked, leaning close. An angel over her shoulder.

“I feel sick,” Darcy said.

Bending low, Lindsay slid an arm around her back and helped her up. Turning to the back of the courtroom, Darcy braced herself for more indignant faces. Instead she saw compassion, support and love in the faces of Tara and Elle, who stood waiting for her. When had they arrived? She hadn't noticed, but she'd never been more relieved to see her friends. She wasn't going to fall away into the vortex; her friends would help her find a way out of this.

“Looks like feeding time at the Bronx Zoo,” Elle said.

Tara touched Darcy's cheek gently, then took her hand. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

“L
unch is on me,” I insisted behind my menu. The four of us—Darcy, Elle, Tara, and I—sat at a small, square table in Pigalle, a bistro in the theater district. “I love this place. They serve breakfast all day.” Maybe my voice sounded a little too chipper and cheerful, considering that my friends and I had just come from the courtroom where we'd heard about the big G verdict for Darcy's dad, but in the scheme of importance, I figured Buford Love's jail sentence paled compared to the other news Darcy was going to have to share with our friends.

“Should we order a bottle of wine?” Elle asked. “A zesty French cabernet? I'll spring for that. I've actually got some good news . . . but that's for later. Right now Darcy could use something to take the edge off.”

I choked on my water, prompting Tara to tap me in the center of the back. “How can you choke? We haven't ordered yet.” Tara asked me.

“I'm okay,” I insisted.

Elle ordered a bottle of cabernet, Darcy sticking with water. We ordered steaks and hearty beef burgundy and eggs Benedict, and the waitress, Natalia, went on her way.

“Sorry about the verdict,” Elle said. “I know it was no surprise, but, well, sorry.”

Leaning close over the table, Tara pinched off a piece of olive bread. “I'm proud of you for sticking by your father till the end.”

“Not that he noticed,” Darcy said. “But honestly, I felt so out of it in that courtroom today. I've got bigger problems now.” She looked at me, and I nodded encouragingly. “The thing is, I'm pregnant.”

Elle's eyes popped in shock. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Oh, Darcy . . .” Tara squeezed her wrist. “And what timing.”

“Okay, I'd say that's bigger news than mine,” Elle said as the waitress poured her a taste of the cabernet. Instead of sipping she downed it, placed the glass on the table, and nodded at Natalia. “That's what we need, and lots of it.”

Natalia laughed as she filled three glasses. “Don't worry, we have plenty in the cellar.”

“Have you made an appointment with your gynecologist?” Tara asked. “I'm sure they could help you terminate the pregnancy, if that's what you want to do.”

“I've thought about it. I've been turning this around and around in my mind, inside out, trying to run through all the possible scenarios.” Darcy tore off a tiny piece of roll. “Ending the pregnancy seems to make the most sense, but every time I think about it, the idea makes me sick. It's, like, a huge sin in the Catholic Church, and I just know it would destroy my father, who's already feeling ruined.”

“When was the last time you went to church?” I asked. “And how would your father find out you had an abortion? It's not as if they'd print it in the prison newsletter.”

“Linds . . .” Darcy scowled at me.

“Okay, bad joke,” I said. “But when did you become antiabortion?”

“I think it should be a legal, safe option for pregnant women,” Darcy said sadly. “Just not for me.”

“And what about Kevin?” Tara cradled her wine. “Have you told him?”

“Kevin knows. He said we could get married right away. I could be the wife of a firefighter. That's what he wants, I think, but he's leaving the final decision up to me.”

I knew that middle-class living was the stuff of Darcy's nightmares. “He means well,” I said. “Even if he's not part of the Kevin and Darcy Bliss Package.”

“Not anymore.” Darcy buttered a piece of roll, shaking her head. “He's not the guy I fell in love with, if that guy ever existed. I know my stomach is a little rocky, but the prospect of a lifetime with Kevin makes me want to hurl.”

“How about a lifetime with a baby?” Elle said. “A baby who's going to grow into a little kid, then into a pain-in-the-ass adult like us. How does that make you feel?”

Darcy lifted her chin and smiled, her eyes a play of blue light. “That sounds sort of good. Promising, somehow.”

“Then you have to follow your heart,” Elle said, as if it were all so obvious. “Lose the father, have the baby.”

Chewing her roll, Darcy nodded. “I think that's what I have to do.”

We were silent as everyone tried to absorb the ramifications of Darcy's life-altering decision . . . Darcy as a single mom. I swirled the red wine in the long-stemmed glass, wishing I could see Darcy's future. Darcy hadn't even finished college yet. She didn't have a job or a place to live. Her father was going off to prison and her mother had shut down emotionally and closed the credit lines. A very bleak picture, I thought, wondering how Darcy would get through it all.

“Wow.” Elle twisted the rings on one hand. “My news is going to sound like some lame consolation prize now. But the bottom line is . . .” She screwed up her face and spewed out the words, rapid-fire: “I'm inheriting a few million dollars from my grandmother and I'd like to use some of it to buy the Love Mansion so we can all have a place to spend the summers together.”

Staring at Elle, Tara sat back in her chair and folded her elegant arms across her chest. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“It's a joke,” I said with a laugh. “Right?”

Elle shook her head frantically. “Turns out I'm loaded, and my dipshit parents weren't going to let me know till the last minute because they thought they'd save me from the evils of excessive fortune! I don't want to step on your shadow, Darce, but when Milo and I worked on that house this summer, I fell in love with it, too. I want to sink some roots. I want to be able to go back next year and the year after that and after that, and since it's in the Hamptons, Gram would have gotten a large charge out of it.”

Everyone looked at Darcy, who was now wide-eyed and pink, jarred out of her misery. “Since when did you become my fucking fairy godmother?”

Elle cocked her head. “You're going to need more than a fucking fairy to fix your life, honey.”

Darcy took a deep breath. “I see that now. I've got my work cut out for me, but at least I'm calling the shots. Buy the house, Elle. I'd feel good about that, and I'm totally awed at your ability to turn straw into gold. You, girl, are a walking lucky charm.”

“Green clovers, yellow moons, pink hearts . . . big surprises!” Elle chirped, mimicking the cereal commercial.

“Here's to next summer,” I said, raising my wineglass. “Oh, God, Darce. You're going to have a baby next summer!”

Darcy clinked her water glass against the others, smiling despite the tears that glistened in her eyes. “I know,” she said as if it were a miracle none of us could fathom. “I know.”

Summer 1999

“O
h, look! Another one-piece snap-crotch thingy,” Darcy said, holding up the cotton garment, so tiny it seemed impossible that a human body could squeeze into it. This one was striped, in yellow, lime and emerald green, with a trainfull of little animals riding one of the stripes across what would be the baby's belly.

“Another set of onesies . . . from Nancy!” Lindsay said, dutifully jotting down the neighbor's name on the gift list so that Darcy could be sure to write her a thank-you note. “And that, I think”—Lindsay kicked at a few mounds of crumpled gift wrap on the floor—“is the last of the gifts. So we'll put the coffee on and let the guys in.” Boyfriends had been sent down the street to wait out the first part of the shower at Coney's “because the sight of diapers and breast pumps makes single men run for the border,” Lindsay had insisted, and as the shower's planner and host, she seemed to know best.

“Thank you so much . . . everyone,” Darcy said sincerely. Before today she'd had no idea half of these things existed, no sense that she wouldn't be able to survive the next six months without a breast pump from a college friend or an ear thermometer from Mrs. McCorkle's neighbor or an Exersaucer from Elle. How could she have known that the hospital wouldn't release her infant without a proper car seat, which the baby would promptly outgrow in six months? It was all a tad overwhelming and extremely alienating for Darcy, who couldn't imagine that this bold, nudging ball growing inside her was going to really make its way out as a baby she loved.

“Don't they just warm your heart? There's nothing like little baby clothes.” Mary Grace McCorkle sat down beside Darcy and began refolding baby garments that spilled out of gift boxes. “Of course, you'll want to wash them all first, in a special detergent. Some baby skin can't tolerate our harsh detergents.”

Darcy had been planning to leave the tags on. “I was thinking that I might have to return some of the gifts that were duplicated,” she said quietly, so other guests wouldn't hear. The breast pump looked like a Gothic torture device, and what baby would need wardrobe changes to warrant all these outfits? “You know, like, who needs twelve onesies?”

“You will, my dear. Just wait and see.” With a laugh, Mary Grace reached over and patted Darcy's cheek. “Babies soil their diapers and spit up so often, you'll be amazed at how many times you'll reach for a new outfit. Could be one every hour.”

“Really?” A dirty diaper every hour? Was this Wonder Ball inside her really going to wreak a path of destruction on the cute Calvin Klein boxers Kevin's mother had sent? Darcy couldn't imagine anything that came from her body messing in its diaper every hour, but then, lately, she'd had lots of trouble imagining her future.

In a brief flash of sanity last fall she'd realized she had only eight months left to get her bachelor's degree sans baby, and so she'd pushed on at Hunter College through morning sickness and maternity clothes and weekly ob-gyn appointments scheduled around classes and final exams. Her June due date seemed to spark a deadline unlike any she'd faced at Bennington, and so she'd attended every class, completed every project and paper. In the spring production of Shakespeare's
Romeo and Juliet
she was cast as the nurse, and though she brought a more youthful approach to the role than most people envisioned, she felt that it was balanced with due authority toward her young charge. That production had been a turning point for Darcy, the readings and rehearsals, opening night and maintaining energy for every performance. She was well suited for the rhythm and excitement of theater; getting paying work after the baby was another story, but for now it was exciting thinking of the possibilities as an actress.

“Isn't this precious?” Lindsay's mother held up a navy velvet jumpsuit with a white collar, the Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit Darcy's mother had sent, gift-wrapped from Saks. “Too bad your mom couldn't be here,” Mrs. Mick said, squeezing Darcy's arm.

“It's a shame,” Darcy said, though she was actually relieved her mother had called to decline the shower invitation, claiming she had a previous engagement. They'd had some explosive arguments when her mother first heard about the baby in late September. Melanie Love was angry at Darcy for screwing up her birth control pills, furious that she was planning to have the baby and keep it, disappointed that she wasn't going to marry Kevin. “What am
I
supposed to do with you?” her mother had asked at one point, as if she couldn't bear the inconvenience of having a pregnant daughter in her life. By October, Melanie Love made it clear that she had no plan to remain attached to her daughter when she put the Great Egg house up for sale and purchased a one-bedroom co-op on Madison Avenue. “I really couldn't afford a two-bedroom,” she explained to Darcy, “and besides, it's time for you to make your own way. Especially if you're going to start a family.”

Thank God for the McCorkles. Lindsay had driven her Saturn out to Great Egg, packed Darcy's possessions inside it, and moved her into the McCorkles' Brooklyn home, where Mrs. Mick was delighted to have not just another mouth to feed, but one who was eating for two. Hunter College, on the upper east side of Manhattan, was an easier commute from Brooklyn, and after two weeks with the McCorkles Darcy could feel the stress draining from her body. Mrs. Mick seemed so appreciative of the smallest things—picking up milk from the deli, helping with the dishes, inviting her to catch a matinee at the multiplex, and Lindsay seemed to enjoy catching up with her best friend each day when she came home from work.

The winter months had passed quickly as Darcy focused on staying healthy, drinking skim milk, and attacking her schoolwork. Life with the McCorkles had been wonderful . . . but Darcy knew things would change once she had the baby. Mrs. McCorkle was happy to have her stay on, but living arrangements were the least of Darcy's worries.

Motherhood was the problem.

With the baby due in a month, Darcy had expected to feel some sort of maternal feelings, a welcoming glow toward her infant. Unfortunately, whenever talk of diapers and baby baths and nursing came up, any mothering instinct was chased off by feelings of inexperience and inadequacy.

How could this baby come to her if she didn't love it?

At first she'd thought it was just her lack of exposure to children that bugged her, so she checked out a dozen books from the library and researched contemporary mothering. She learned that breastfeeding could provide the baby with extra immunities, that baby powder could actually harm the baby's lungs, that the cords of blinds were hazardous to toddlers . . .

But none of these facts could make her feel any love for her baby.

And now, with all these women gathered here to celebrate the new life coming into the world, Darcy felt like a fraud, a flimsy actress propped up to play the mommy role, only to disappoint her audience.

Would she ever start feeling some sort of attachment for the shifting noodge in her belly?

She was afraid not. And the idea of playing out the same flawed relationship she had with her own mother was devastating. She was jarred from her painful thoughts when Nancy, Mrs. Mick's neighbor, took the seat beside her with a plate loaded with desserts.

“You okay, little mommy?” Nancy asked. “You look overwhelmed.”

“Just amazed at all these gifts,” Darcy lied. “You guys shouldn't have gone to so much trouble.”

Really, they shouldn't have, because Darcy knew that cold, detached mothers like her mother, like the mother she was becoming, didn't deserve any of this.